Psychology 101
by Kalida
Summary: "100 people on average choke to death on a ball-point pen." She declares suddenly.  I dumbly nod my head and ask, "Annually?"    Weirdest pairing ever! Lance Sweets/Debra Morgan. AU.   Rated T.


**A/N:**This is an idea that suddenly struck me. I know it is cliché. But I just couldn't leave this fic simply be an idea. I had to write it down.

.

It's a Bones-Dexter crossover fic. But it is AU too. I'm trying out some really weird pairings and I stumbled upon Deb/Sweets pairing. It is a crazy idea and I'm running with it. You needn't know who Debra Morgan is or who Lance Sweets is to enjoy this fanfic. It is basically a standalone fic, I guess.

The premise is something like this : Deb is a foul-mouthed teenager with the reputation of "freak" and Sweets is a geeky student who is a wannabe-psychologist.

Let me know whether you think I should continue.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Warning:<strong>Foul language, mentions of sex or violence.

.

**Disclaimer:**I do not own Bones. Neither do I own Dexter. No copyright infringement intended.

.

**Rating: T**

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

**Let the craziness begin…**

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Weird Indeed

* * *

><p>.<p>

. .

. . .

"100 people on average choke to death on a ball-point pen." She declares suddenly.

I dumbly nod my head and ask, "Annually?"

"Who the fuck cares?"She asks incredulously. "What are you? Retarded? Did you mother drop you on your head when you were a baby or something?"

I don't take offense at her words. Her foul language and hostility are just methods of self-preservation. I reply, "I thought _you_ did. You were the one talking about ball-point pens and people choking to death."

"Yeah, well… I saw you nibbling on your ball-point pen and was hoping that you would become a statistic."

I don't take offense at her words. But that doesn't mean I don't find it tiresome. "Can we just get on with this?"

"Fine…" She grumbled. "Remind me again, why the fuck am _I_ doing this?"

"Because you promised my cousin, who happens to be your best-friend." I answer smugly.

"Twice removed." She retorts.

"Whatever. Now, can we just proceed –"

"Why were _you_ doing this?"

I breathe deeply through my nose and count to ten. Okay, well five… After smothering the rather tempting urge to strangle her neck, I reply for the hundredth time, "Because I am conducting a personal study as to determine how adolescents subconsciously try to empathize and morph themselves into the stereotypes assigned to them by their peers and society."

"But why?" She snorts. "Some sort of project or assignment?"

"Just to satisfy my personal curiosity." I reply, curtly.

"God! You really are fucked up!" She questions mockingly, "So, are you gonna interview yourself to study someone under the category of 'geeks'?"

The things I put up with! "You know what? Maybe I will." I answer while pushing my glasses further up my nose. "Can we please get on with this so that we don't kill each other by the end of the day?"

"I think that is gonna happen anyways." She answers.

I am this close to pulling my hair out in frustration, when she finally relents "Fine…"

"Okay." I clear my throat and look at the questionnaire I had written in my notebook. I flipped to the page marked "Stereotype: Freak" and read out the first question. "What is your favorite color?"

"What's yours?" She asks, chewing on her piece of gum and flipping back an errant strand of her jet-black hair.

I sigh. "My preferences doesn't matter. This is a questionnaire, you just need to answer my question." I try to bite back the tone of irritation from my voice.

"I know that!" She answers, indignantly. "It's just… I feel fucking weird spewing out a bunch of answers like a supercomputer or something. I need… I need a conversation."

"Alright, fine. We'll play by your rules. Quid pro quo." I concede. "My favorite color is blue. What is yours?"

She answers simply, "Beige."

"Beige?" I question, while noting down her answer in my notebook. I notice that her T-shirt is beige with a black skull on it. Funny how I didn't notice it before.

"Yeah, beige." She asserts. Her eyebrows furrow and nose flares in an expression of irritation. "What is wrong with beige?"

"Nothing. I just… It's an uncommon favorite color. That's all." Damn! I stuttered. Her eyes narrow. I recover quickly, "Er… So, what kind of music do you like?"

She shrugs nonchalantly and replies, "Anything that sounds good."

"And what sounds good? Rock, rap, hip-hop?" I ask, listing the genres that she would probably find interesting. Given her black mass of unruly hair, brightly colored eyelids, thick black eyeliner, shabbily thrown together outfit and overall reputation as a freak, this is an easy deduction.

"It varies. Anything that has meaning. Either in the lyrics or in the music. I don't fucking care whether it's jazz or rap or punk or melody or death metal. As long as I feel it, I like it."

"Hmm… Interesting." I note down her answer and proceed to ask the next question. "Do you –"

"Uh, huh… Quid pro quo. Your answer, Mr. Geeky Pants." She interrupts me, shrugging her arms into her leather jacket.

"Uh…" I do not know what to say. Nobody has ever asked me what kind of music I liked. "Er, nothing special. Just whatever is popular, I think."

"Nah, no way you're getting away that easy. I just gave a fucking B-E-Autiful lecture on my kind of music and you get to answer 'what's popular'. No fucking way." She crosses her arms.

.

I concede, only _partially_ due to the fact that I'm slightly afraid of her. I swallow thickly and awaits the humiliation that's sure to follow as I answer, "Lady Gaga."

I never thought it would be possible, but, she laughs. Though it sounds like a hippopotamus wailing, I have to admit, it has a kind of beauty to it.

"Lady Gaga?" She shakes her head disbelievingly. "Seriously?"

I should've clamped down my urge to defend my favorite idol, but I couldn't. "Yeah, of course. She's an amazing artist with great individuality and –" I trail off to the sound of and even louder and harder laughter. I can feel irritation throbbing in my veins. "Hey! As I can't comment on your answer, you can't comment on mine." I argue morosely.

She points to her cheek-splitting Cheshire cat grin. "This isn't commenting. This is laughing my frigging ass off."

Yeah, well. I can't really argue with that! She's still laughing, mirth in her eyes, her shoulders shaking, breasts jiggling… _Whoa_! Focus… Not on her breasts, damnit! On the question. _Focus __on __the__ question._

"Do you smoke?" I ask, hoping that the question will stop her laughing fit.

She sobers up (or rather tries to) and answers "No".

Well, there's a surprise. Generally, 'freaks' tend to equate themselves to the 'bad boy (or girl)' image and get addicted to… well, possibly anything they can get addicted to. I mask my surprise and ask, "Why not?"

"Yeah well… I figured that if I was so fucking fond of death, I might as well put a gun in my mouth rather than a cigarette. It's much more quick and easier. I don't like to draw out my agony. I prefer a fast death to a slow one…"

.

I nod.

Something feels out of order as I know something _real_ about her. Out of balance. Maybe she feels the same to. So, just to make the playing field even, she asks, "What about you? You smoke?"

I shake my head 'no'.

She tilts her head to the side and gives a half-shrug. "Why not?"

I rub the back of my neck. "The same reason." I say.

"Wow! Fucking weird…" She says. "We actually have something in common."

.

_Weird__ indeed_.

* * *

><p>.<p>

. .

. . .

* * *

><p><strong>Special offer! Leave a review and get a blessing free! <strong>


End file.
